Never Be Forgotten
by poetrygirl22
Summary: 'He had been so alive, so free. He lived life to the full every moment of every day, and was thankful for everything he had. Flea's words were true. He had died a great man. And he would never be forgotten.' Porthos died in a battle. How Aramis reacts. One-shot


**I don't own anything Musketeer related. **

**Please please please review and tell me what you think.**

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Not him, no, not him. Anyone but him. D'Artagnan stood in front of Aramis, tears running down his face. No, not him. Please God don't let it be him. D'Artagnan didn't mutter a word, just turned and walked away. In, through the carved wooden doors and into the room beyond. He pointed up the steps. Aramis took three at a time, his feet pounding on the marble staircase as he ran. The West wing was a makeshift hospital, physicians working to save the wounded Musketeers. There had been a fight, too many casualties. Too many. And now he had been called up here to see someone. For one second he wished it was Captain Treville. He was a good captain, but Aramis would never really forgive him for Savoy. Let it be him. Then he arrived, and the physician looked up and beckoned him inside before leaving. And lying on the posh, now bloodstained bed was… Porthos. Broken, bleeding out of a wound on his side Porthos. The musket ball had severed right through his stomach. He was as pale as the sheets he lay on, his eyes barely open. "Aramis?" His voice was too weak, pain replacing the usual joy he heard there.

"I'm here, I'm here." He knelt beside the injured man, clasping his limp hand in his own, calloused skin on smooth. His hand was too limp.

"Thank you for everything. You told me about Heaven, great feasts and singing angels. I'm gonna see my mother again, but I don't want to leave you. I don't wanna die, Mis, I don't wanna die." He closed his eyes, letting out a ragged breath.

"Stay with me, please stay with me. Don't go, you can't go. I need you, I need you. Don't go." Tears were running down his cheeks and he was squeezing his hand too hard. Porthos let out one final breath, before he slipped into oblivion. Aramis pressed his forehead to the now cold hand, letting a sob wrack through him. "I love you. I always have." The words tumbled out of his mouth, the words he had wanted to say yet not had the courage to for so many years. He would never have the chance now. Porthos was gone. He was never coming back.

Everything seemed to move so slowly, moments stretching into years. Voices met his ears in distorted echoes, and his limbs wouldn't move. Athos limped in first, walking in and asking if Porthos would recover. When he saw the cold body he stood still, a carved statue. D'Artagnan came in next, and sank to the floor when he saw him. Treville joined them, and his face contorted with rage. The battle was won. One of them had killed the opposing commander, a move that saved so many soldier's lives. He was discovered with his face punched in and neck broken. Porthos had done it. He had died saving them all.

They travelled back to Paris. They sat on their horses in silence. A huge part was missing from their group. D'Artagnan tried to hide his sobs and Athos ignored the drink's beckoning to look after him. Aramis rode separate from the group. People tried to comfort him, but he didn't need them. He needed Porthis to come riding up with a grin on his face, slap him on the back and tell him a joke. He needed his brother. That night they set up camp. D'Artagnan cooked. Nobody in their number ate. Porthos always cooked. He used to take a dead squirrel and a few fish and make something delicious from it. He'd use things like leaves and bark, anything to make sure their stomachs were full. He look after them. D'Artagnan hadn't done too badly, but it wasn't the same. Aramis's stomach rumbled as he lay down. Porthos wouldn't have allowed that. He would have made him get up and forced him to eat. Then he'd sit with him till he fell asleep. And his presence would scare away the nightmares and allow him a peaceful night of deep sleep.

Aramis didn't sleep at all that night. He sat in the dark, watching the others swap watches and not volunteering. He didn't have the mind for that tonight. He heard the quiet sobs coming from d'Artagnan, and Athos's hushed comforts. Then, later on, the rhythmic thump of sword meeting the trunk of a tree as Athos let his anger burn. So instead he sat, watching a ghostly image of Porthos. He saw the first time they had met, the first time they shared a cell. He saw himself being selflessly rescued from countless angry husbands. He saw them drinking at the bar. He saw Porthos, brave, strong Porthos, being whipped in front of his very eyes because of a crime he had done. He saw injured, bleeding Porthos, in agony from a bullet that had come from his pistol. Then the image changed, and it was the dingy streets of the Court, the light from the moon glimmering in a thousand blades as they advanced on a young, frightened Porthos. He saw the boy getting restrained while one, the red cloak of a Red Guard clearly visible over his shoulder, brought his knife and dragged it slowly across his face, over his eye. He saw blood gushing down the boy's face before he fell unconscious on the cold streets. Then the same boy, this time a few years older and with a scar across his eye, knelt over a young girl with skin as black as coal as a Red Guard brought down his musket on the boy's head. Then he saw Charon, Porthos's friend, his once brother, with Aramis's sword through his stomach. He saw Porthos cradling his friend's limp body as tears ran down his face.

He had heard the tales in bits, from different people. Whether it was a awed orphan or a drunk old man. The words would sometimes come out of the man himself's own mouth if he had had too much to drink. He had seen the scars peppering his body, and met the people he had saved.

That was his legacy. They would tell the tales of his bravery in generations to come.

But Aramis wanted more.

He wanted to laugh with him, drink with him, get in trouble with him again. He wanted things to be just like they were.

The sun makes it's slow way across the horizon, signalling time to start riding again. Aramis skipped breakfast. So did everyone else.

They started to ride again.

They arrive back in Paris. Aramis heads to his rooms, but as he opens the door something catches his eye. A blonde curl disappearing past the doorframe of Porthos's rooms. He opens the creaky wooden door and steps in. He barely notices the woman sobbing in the chair. Porthos is sitting on the bed, mouth open in a silent laugh. He steps forward and reaches out, but the man disappears the second before his fingers can touch him.

The floor is barely visible, clothes and weapons randomly scattered across it. The fire is still and cold, a large pot hanging above it. Aramis can almost smell the delicious aroma coming from it. He can see the emergency medical kit he himself had stashed in the corner, alongside a bottle of wine peeping out from under a cupboard. Athos had put it there. For sterilising wounds apparently. He remembered how he and Porthos had laughed when he was gone. Sterilising wounds, yeah right.

He sits at the table, glancing across at the woman opposite him. At some point he had started crying, and now he couldn't stop. Her name was Flea. He had sown up a bullet wound in her shoulder. She loved Porthos. It was clear at the time when she had spoken of him with such longing, and it is clear now as she sits in his rooms. If it wasn't for her Porthos would have died.

"He invited me to come with him. I could have gone. I could have left the Court and become an honourable lady." Her voice was full of guilt and longing for what could have been. "I could have married him, and been with him. We could have had those precious moments together. Now it's too late." She wiped a tear from her eye. "The Court mourns for him. They love him still, even after all this time. And I still love him." She didn't look at him when she spoke, as if she wasn't talking directly to the man opposite her. "He left to become a good man. He died a great man. You should tell your Captain. Tell him nobody in the Court will harm a Musketeer again as long as I live. Tell him any friend of Porthos is a friend of us all. Please tell him that. Please." She got unsteadily to her feet. Then she squared her shoulders and held her head high. She walked out briskly, all hints of her earlier tears gone. This is how the world must see her. Strong and powerful, no room for weakness. It was a quality he knew well. She was just like Porthos. Strong, powerful. A wall around all emotions. They didn't know of the man he was inside, the always laughing, fearless, free man inside.

Aramis walks back into his room. Athos appears, and he relates Flea's message. Then he's gone again, and Aramis lays his head back on his bed. It still smells faintly of the barmaid's perfume. The flowery scent make him want to be sick. He sits back up again.

Porthos is gone. He's not coming back. Ever. It's already dark. He walks into Porthos's room again. He sits heavily on the bed, leaning his head back. He has spent many happy evenings here, just them. They would joke and laugh, drink and eat. Aramis would sew his shirts in return for a meal. It was what they had always done. It was what they would never do again. He closed his eyes. Night terrors poison his sleep, full of bloody whips and a screaming man. It is a relief to wake, but the thoughts that fill his mind make him want to go back to sleep again. It was the day of his funeral.

He stands there. Dressed in his best clothes, polished and cleaned especially. Athos did it. The man in question stands beside him, a hand resting against his arm. D'Artagnan stands on the other side of Athos, sobbing and shaking. Treville stands in front of them. In front of him in the coffin. The coffin. Large, wooden, nailed shut. With a blue Musketeer's cloak draped over it. He'd hate it in there. Yet there he is. Laying there with his hands folded across his chest and his skin as pale as parchment. A sob leaves his body. This reminds him of Athos's funeral, when they were just pretending to fool Milady. Porthos had shed a tear merely at the prospect of losing a brother. Aramis hadn't understood. He did now.

Behind him stood Alice and Flea. They stood side by side, a stark contrast. Alice was dressed in mourning colours again. They were so different, yet identical tears rolled down their faces. The Musketeers were circled around the coffin, and behind them stood so many people. They were all dressed in poor clothes, and most of them were thin. They all had different skin tones, and some even spoke different languages, though they were all silent now. There were a lot of slaves among them.

The funeral had taken over the whole graveyard. It was like the whole of Paris had come to mourn him.

He had been so alive, so free. He lived life to the full every moment of every day, and was thankful for everything he had. Flea's words were true. He had died a great man. And he would never be forgotten.


End file.
